


Baz dies

by dark_as_pitch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Baz dies at the start of 8th Year, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Simon grieves and rages against the world, angry soft boys against the world, but i PROMISE there is a happy ending, but not really, the Mage can choke, this is just a way for Simon to feel all of the feels and moon over Baz, visitings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-06 23:38:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17354819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_as_pitch/pseuds/dark_as_pitch
Summary: Baz dies (kinda). Simon loses his chill.





	Baz dies

**Author's Note:**

> Everything belongs to the wonderful Rainbow Rowell.

I think I’m going mad. Penny thinks so.

Of course, she doesn’t say as much, but it’s obvious by the near permanent crease between her brows and how carefully she chooses her words around me these days. She’s never treated me like a bomb before. It was a matter of time I suppose, everyone else always has.

I can’t sleep. I can’t think.

My mind is just one continuous loop.

_He’s dead. Baz is dead. He’s dead. Baz._

Everything is different now. Ever since the Mage’s speech my head has been nothing but static. I feel like I’m buzzing out of my skin.

_“My sources have led me to believe...very unfortunate indeed...”_

He looked so cold, detached. As if he was informing us of a nasty bit of weather ahead.

_“We have known this time would come...the Humdrum is getting stronger...”_

It’s always about prophecies and the Humdrum. Duty. Power.

_“It is a shame, really...The boy is dead...Taken, yes, by the Humdrum...”_

The boy. _“The Pitch heir is dead, I’m afraid.”_ He didn’t look afraid. He didn’t look much of anything. His face was carefully blank.

The students of Watford were afraid, though. The Families pulled most of their kids from school. Even some of the other parents did, too. Threat of the Humdrum sent a spike of ice straight up everyone’s spine.

Penny’s mom wanted to pull her. They had a huge row about it, Penny saying she would never abandon her studies. We all saw through that. She feels like she has to stick around and stop me from going nuclear.

I don’t think she should be worried about that. I’m not going to go off. I can barely get out of bed in the morning.

It’s like as soon as the news about Baz hit, all my magic, all this endless energy that used to leak out and make everyone feel drunk, turned inwards. It’s all rattling around inside me, churning my stomach. My skin feels sensitive like I’m running a high fever. My head has been filled with lead.

_“Chin up, Simon.”_ The Mage insisted I carry on with business as usual; go to my lessons, always be ready for action. _“This is good. It means this will soon be over. Us defeating the Humdrum will get the Old Families out of the way once and for all. Be a good boy, Simon, keep up with your practising.”_

I didn’t answer that. Or anything really. Penny told her mom I’d gone “non-verbal”. I think she was trying to not use the word “zombie”.

And, anyway, I can’t practise. My magic is more useless than ever. Four weeks into 8th Year and I haven’t cast a single successful spell. At first it was the curiosity about Baz’s suspicious absence eating me up. I was so sure he was somewhere plotting, hiding behind every corner waiting to get me, always three steps ahead.

Now I know better. Now, he’s gone for good.

I can’t practise with my sword either. I’m too afraid to even summon it. Because I know that the moment I do, that very second, I will run it straight through the Mage’s chest.

I can’t shake the thought that he seemed pleased from my head. It’s an awful thought. I feel like I’m betraying the man who took me in and gave me something to live for just by thinking it. But. If he had anything to do with Baz’s _death_ ; Merlin and Morgana, I will kill him. I’ve never been more certain about anything.

That’s something I haven’t told anyone. Not Penny. Not Agatha (not that I’ve said anything to her her since last summer). My mind has turned mutinous.

While the Mage was announcing to the gathered student body that the Pitch heir had _un-fucking-fortunately_ been killed by the Humdrum, a black film came down over my eyes. One single moment of absolute world-altering rage was the last thing I felt before emptying out completely.

So, I don’t summon the Sword of Mages. I don’t try to bring my magic to the surface. Because if I start doing anything at all, I’m not sure I could stop. Not sure if I’d want to.

So I don’t do anything. I stay in my room ( _our_ room) and stare at Baz’s bed, mostly.

I keep imagining him there. Curled up under his pile of blankets in the morning, trying to keep away from the cold and the sun and my noisy start to the day ( _“Why are you so fucking_ loud _, Snow? All the grace of a newborn elephant, I swear._ ) The only time his hair ever looked messy, scrunched against his pillow, dark and soft.

I can see him at his desk, hunched over his work. The only time he ever looked truly peaceful, like his mind finally had the chance to quieten down and enjoy the information pouring in. Shoulders strong and sloping.

Then he’s by the window, spitting into the moat, sneering at the merwolves. He always seemed so amused by his own antics, smirk carved into his aristocratic face. Jaw as sharp as his wit. Moonlight dusting his high cheekbones.

Now that my brain isn’t constantly being used to uncover supposed plots, it seems to have turned into a 24hr cinema viewing, where the theme of the week is always Baz.

It’s only ever been about Baz with me, I guess.

That’s the one clear thing cutting through the haze of these past weeks. I can’t believe I missed it. I can’t believe _Penny_ did.

I’ve been obsessed with him for years. I’ve spent every moment of every day since I was eleven thinking about him. Yet it took him dying for me to realise.

_Idiot idiot idiot, always too little too late._

I sit around all day driving myself crazy with _if only_.

If only I had done something differently. If only I had been better.

It was meant to be _me_. I was supposed to die heroically while saving the World of Mages from the Greatest Evil. And Baz was meant to make it out alive and attend my funeral wearing a fancy suit and telling people that, in the end, I wasn’t _“that bad actually, quite courageous in fact”_.

It’s all so ironically tragic that I can’t bear to think about it. Baz would have had a field day with it. Out of all the tragic things to happen in the Chosen One’s life, realising you’d misjudged your feelings for your (now dead) enemy is a close call between hilarious and disastrous.

Though, I can’t really work up the energy to laugh. I’d probably only spook myself if I managed it anyway. This room feels echoey now.

*

Six weeks into 8th year, the Visitings start.

It’s the first thing to spark any type of excitement at Watford since the News struck. Penny was so relieved I actually spoke to ask what was going on, that she’s gone on a full thirty minute rant of what they are and interesting instances in history when the Dead came back with important messages for the Living.

I try to nod along as best I can, and pretend that the toast I’m trying to eat isn’t scraping my dry throat on the way down.

*

Even though I didn’t give the Visitings much thought at the start, they have become almost an obsession as the days wear on and more and more students are Visited by recently deceased relatives and ancestors who’ve held on to grudges for centuries.

Suddenly, there’s something to focus on again. It feels like the first week of school all over again. Penny seems more worried than ever; she keeps sighing heavily and pleading with me to let it go. (I hate upsetting her, but I _can’t_. I can’t ever let it go.) I keep checking over my shoulder, focusing on every corner and crevice of the school, convinced that I’m going to see Baz again, if only I look hard enough.

Because, he would definitely come back. He is absolutely the type of prick who’d want to get the last word in and milk every last drop of attention he can. (Though it’s not always easy to look at him, not for me at least. My heart would always pound and my magic would start overflowing before he even said a word. He always knew which buttons to press to make me _feel_ more intensely than anything else could.) (Fuck me, I miss him.)

This is why, when the doors to the Great Hall smash open one morning, I jump up from my seat triumphant. For a moment I just want to shout, “A-ha! See here everyone, I am not crazy!”

But, then. Baz Visiting can mean only one thing. And I can’t really lie to myself any longer.

Because what I’ve secretly been hoping all this time, that one single flame of hope I’ve kept so close to my heart, is that there has been a mistake. That he isn’t dead, and that cold bastard of a Headmaster said so to stir up the Coven and the Families.

But the proof is staring me in the face, quite literally. Blurry as he is (though I think that has more to do with the tears that are openly pouring down my face).

I make some type of strangled noise, and start towards him.

His focus is entirely on me. He begins walking forward. The Hall is silent as a grave (which is fitting, considering).

The thing is; the closer he gets, the more confused I become. Because he doesn’t look like the other Visitors. He seems more solid, and his feet firmly hit the ground with every step.  His face is set in his usual superior scowl, carved in stone.

We stop within a foot of each other. Every muscle in my body is trembling.

“Is this a Visiting?” I growl. It sounds more aggressive than even Baz would be used to hearing from me, but I can’t be bothered with that right now. My heart is beating so wildly, I feel like _I’m_ a moment away from an early grave.

“No.” Just that. One-word answers aren’t like him. This is all wrong.

He’s trying to sneer, but it wobbles. He looks like he’s been through Hell and been spat out again. The bruises under his eyes rival mine.

I choke out a single sob of “ _Baz”_ , and then fling myself forward.

I grab his face and smash my lips to his.

I need to feel something, anything. I need adrenaline to knock me off my feet. I’d even settle for Baz punching me in the face. Anything to get rid of the sickness of these past weeks.

But he doesn’t push me away. He reacts like a caged animal sinking his claws into a cutting of meat. He pulls me against him so tight I can barely breathe. (I don’t need air. I need him.)

The kiss is aggressive and desperate and wet with tears running down our faces. We break apart for mere moments of air that we almost choke on, rattling its way down our lungs, and then attach ourselves to each other like every second apart is unbearable.

And it is. It has been. Being separated from him (thinking I had been _permanently_ separated from him) is the worst feeling I have ever experienced. The world became bleak.

And now, this, kissing him is the most important thing I have ever done. That’s how it feels.

My hands are pulling hard on his hair, pulling him as close to me as possible. He whimpers and lets out a desperate “ _Simon_ ” against my lips.

I pull away and meet his eyes. We stare at each other, chests heaving.

“You look like shit.”

“You don’t look too hot yourself, Snow.” But his arms become impossibly tighter around my middle.

“He said you were dead.” My tone is dark, something cold and bitter winding around my windpipe.

His mood matches mine, “I know.” Lip curling cruelly to one side, “Believe me now, Snow? Or am I still biased and obsessed with political conspiracy theories?”

“What happened to you?”

“He took me.”

“The Humdrum?”

He stares at me hard. “No, Simon. Not the _fucking_ Humdrum.” He tries to keep his voice from cracking. Always trying to be strong. Untouchable. But someone did touch him, and, Crowley, will he be sorry.

“We will make him pay.” My voice is steel. It is the absolute truth.

Something a little bit soft and a little bit vulnerable flickers in Baz’s eyes. Like up until now he was just going with it, being pulled into fits of kissing and ugly crying because he didn’t have the energy to question it.

“We?” Quiet. Searching.

The Mage will pay for what he has done. The whole world full of manipulative adults will feel the white hot fury of injustice that has been slowly boiling in me for a long time.

But when I go off, I always protect those I care about.

“I’m never letting go of you again.” This kiss is a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely very different to all my other fics (at least it feels that way to me), but I had to get it out of my head. So, bear with me?
> 
> Also, I think the idea for this was not entirely my own? I feel as if ages ago I read a fic on ao3 with a similar plot and the recurring phrase of "The Pitch boy is dead.", but cannot for the life of me find it. So, kudos to you my friend, you inspired me. 
> 
> Hope this was enjoyable.<3


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